


when accidents happen

by arexnna



Series: lost stars [11]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arexnna/pseuds/arexnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital” AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	when accidents happen

“I hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital” AU

-/-

Being angry with personal matters and being on a chase for some asshole apparently do not go hand in hand.

It’s bad enough that Walsh won’t stop bugging her even after weeks of their breakup, mixed in with that ridiculous  _friend request_ from  _Neal Cassidy_ who’s  _changed his status from **single** to  **in a relationship**_ she’d received yesterday that’s  _still_ bugging her, but add those with a very persistent perp who’s extremely intent on not being caught – and this day might just win top spot in her  _Worst Day Ever_ shortlist.

And so now, she’s chasing down some  _stolen identity case_ that happens to be riding some Kawasaki crap, in her yellow bug, which mind you  _is not_ made for chases. Giving credit where it’s due, the guy’s smart. He uses back routes she’s never known of, making ridiculous turns on every corner, which says something, given that this is considered  _her_ ground.

He takes a left, and then a right, and a right again, dodging through the alleys and  _fuck,_  she’s lost him. She’d been searching for him for almost two weeks, and now she’s back to square one.

She’s filled with frustration and annoyance and  _this is not a good day_  as she accelerates her way out of the tight alleyway, spinning the wheel to turn into the main road and—

Oh  _fuck._

So, just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse – she runs over a human being.

She rushes out of her car and finds a dark haired man lying by the foot the hood of her car, clutching his side as he squeezes his eyes shut in pain.

“ _Fuck!_  Shit, shit, shit – what the  _hell_?” she curses, pacing around him as her hands run through her hair in attempt to busy herself with  _something_ given she has  _no clue_ what on earth she should even do. “What- what were you thinking!”

“ _Me?_ ” he yells back accusingly, his eyes snapping open, only to be squinted when he furrows his eyebrows at her. “ _You_ ran over  _me!_ ”

“You ran into my car!”

“I don’t see your car on the bloody ground!”

He makes a good point, she sees that now. And after the initial shock of almost killing someone with a car probably as old as her subsides, “ _okay, okay_ ,” she calms, her hand smoothing down over her face, “Are you hurt?” she finally asks, realizing she should’ve done that in the first place. “Can you move?”

Trying to sit up, he grimaces in agony, holding his side tightly.

“I guess that’s a  _no_.”

“ _I guess_  you broke my goddamn ribs,” he shoots back, his voice thick with a scowl.

“ _Okay_ , I’m  _sorry_ ,” she says, and just listening to herself say these things, she’s come to the conclusion that she’s a bitch. And in an attempt to make her feel better about herself, “Come on, let me bring you to the hospital.”

-/-

It took awhile, but seeing as he couldn’t support his weight, much less she, they had to wait a good 15 minutes until after a few hundred people walked by, for a kind soul to actually offer a hand to help haul him into her bug. She  _does_ feel bad, so she isn’t a  _total_ bitch – after all, she’d just hit a guy with her car, and she’d have to be some sort of psychopath to  _not_ have felt any guilt at all.

He’s awfully nice about that fact, she notes – put aside the part where he’d told the nurse that she had ran him over with a tone dripping with accuse, resulting in glares being shot in her direction, he doesn’t whine or complain (despite the fact that she  _did,_ in fact, run him over).

And while she does feel guilty, Graham’s been calling her into work wanting an explanation as to  _why_ she couldn’t catch her perp  _this_  time ( _it has not been a good month, mind you_ ), and her conscience can lose in this battle between guilt and the stability of her job. So, when he’s settled in after being admitted – ( _his name’s Killian Jones, age 28 – she finds out when he asks her to fill in the form for him_ ) – she dashes out, saying her last of a dozen apologies, rushing back before she gets into deeper shit.

Graham lets her off easy this time, understanding she’s had a rough month and waves the incident off. And even though she knows Graham wouldn’t  _actually_ even  _think_ of firing her (since,  _one_ : he’s  _far_ too kind, and  _two:_  he – well, he kind of has a tiny crush on her), she stays and offers a hand at the stacks of paperwork that’s been procrastinated by most of the staff.

But despite her self-made busy work schedule, one Killian Jones still sits in the back of her mind. And since she can’t exactly up and leave to check up on him, she does a different kind of check up.

Typing in his details, she can’t help but look over her shoulder a couple hundred times, not wanting any questions asked since he definitely isn’t the perp she’s been chasing for weeks on end, which means she doesn’t quite have good enough reason to be looking at his personal records.

He’s clean, as far as she sees since Ruby rolls over in her chair a minute later, cutting her stalking— _check up_ session short.

“Well, who’s  _this_ cutie you’re creeping on?” she eyes the screen, the end of the pen she’s fiddling with being chewed on.

She looks over his page a couple times before closing the tab, trying and hoping to not look like she has something to hide –  _which she doesn’t_. “Just some guy.”

But of course, Ruby doesn’t ever let anything go easily, “He’s not a perp, is he? His record was clean. And you’ve never mentioned a ‘Killian Jones’. Did you just run into him or something?”

And at her friend’s choice of words, the snicker finds it easy to slip out from between her lips, getting a curious look be shot back at her. “Ever consider being a detective? You’d do good,” she stalls, but Ruby’s arched eyebrow forces her to succumb, “Okay, yeah, I kind of ran into him.”

“Kind of ran into him?” she quotes, “What does that mean exactly.”

“ _You know_  – I  _might_  have ran into him with my car.”

“You  _what?”_

“It was an accident!”

“Accident or not, you’re one lucky son of a bitch,” she remarks, leaving Emma just  _slightly_ confused. “You go and run over someone and he ends up being super hot – if it were me, I’d have probably ran into some grandpa trying to cross the road!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got to go,” she shuts the computer down, placing the still unfinished files back where they came from. “Got some errands to run,” she mentions as she picks her jacket off the back of the chair and shrugs it on.

She tries for a swift exit, picking up her things, throwing a casual smile here, tossing a goodbye wave there, and just as she thinks she can pull it off, no questions asked, “Have fun playing nurse with that cutie!” Ruby all but yells, and Emma can actually  _feel_  the whole room’s (while not big in number, she never quite liked having co-workers know about her personal life – with an exception of Ruby, that is) curious eyes drilling through the back of her head.

And just before she steps out of the door, she turns, giving her co-worker one of the very best of her tight-lipped  _fuck you_  smiles.

(Which of course is matched with a  _fuck you too_ smug grin on Ruby’s part, of which is so masterfully done through years and years of hard practice that Emma allows her to win this one)

-/-

“Hey,” she drags the word out softly as she knocks lightly on the wood door.

His eyes flutter open as she steps into the empty room, a giddy smile forming on his lips, white teeth flashing and blue ( _woah – really_ blue) eyes shining.

“Lass!” he says all too enthusiastically, “What brings you here!”

 “Well they hopped you up on some good drugs, didn’t they?” She drags the bulky armchair closer towards the bed, and he watches with a tilted head and a drowsy stare while he nods lazily at her question.

“What’s that?” he nods towards the corny  _Get Well Soon!_ balloon she’d bought from the gift store downstairs in realisation that she’d come empty handed.

“Why it’s for you,” she smiles, tying it gently to the foot of his bed.

It seems that her mood has altered vastly since earlier – the lightness in her voice and the tender smile she gives him surprising even herself. Turns out all she needed to change her mood was knocking some (really good looking) guy over with her bug.

_Not that she’s planning on running over any more people whenever she has a bad day or anything._

“ _Me_? You’re far too kind for me, lass,” his voice is giddy and almost childish as he smiles tiredly at her, the drugs apparently making him extremely sleepy.

He’s in between sleep when she looks around the room, noticing the balloon to be the only thing that shows signs of other human life besides him and nurses, and she wonders if anyone had even come to visit him.

“So where’s your family?” she gambles with the question, not quite expecting an answer, but taking the risk anyway.

She doesn’t want to pry or anything, and it doesn’t quite make sense to her really, but for some odd pull, she has the urge to find out more about this guy.

A moment of silence passes and just as she’s about to forget she even asked (hoping that the medication has the same effect on him), he mumbles his answer. “Me brother’s in Ireland – he’s the only family I’ve got,” he says casually, but there’s a stinging in her heart at his words.

She decides not to push on  _why_ his brother that’s living thousands of miles away is his only family left, and even though he says it with a nonchalance, she knows that some old wounds still sting.

“Friends?” she asks instead.

“Didn’t want to bother them, but –  _oh!_  I think they’ve been calling me,” his eyes snap open as he jerks to get up, but she sees that he’s regretting that decision almost immediately. So instead, she reaches for the phone that lays on the side table for him, sitting by his wallet and some loose change. “Can you check it, love?” he asks lying slowly back down as his hand rests still on his fractured ribs.

She does as asked, and when the screen lights up, there are (more than) several notifications littering the phone. It seems  _Robin (6)_ was most worried, his number of calls and worrisome texts telling her that he may be one of Killian’s closest friends (or probably just the  _dad_  in his group of friends). A  _Will Scarlet (4)_ comes in second place – several texts beginning with him humblebragging about his exploits from the night before, turning into  _‘Robin says you’re not picking up your phone?’_ s and  _‘Where the hell are you, mate?’s._ There’s a  _‘dude, where you?’_ from Jefferson and another  _‘Killian Jones, pick up your goddamn phone’_ from ‘Tink’ whose name is followed by an obnoxious amount of green hearts.

“Your friends are worried.”

The look he gives her makes it seem as though he’s actually surprised that his friends care, but he masks it with a shrug. “I’ll ring them up later.”

“Why didn’t you make one of them your emergency contact?” she asks, vaguely recalling the fact that he’d opted to just  _not_  put a name and number earlier ( _he’s a smooth talker, she finds out – he was_ supposed  _to fill it in, but with a smile here, and a wink there, he manages to talk the nurse out of it_ ).

He tries again for nonchalance, but the medication seem to be taking a toll on his game and instead he just gets the opposite when he shrugs again. “They have their own lives – I’ll just be a nuisance.”

And she knows exactly how that feels. She’d felt that way for most of her life until the Nolans had taken her in and even though her life’s been not too bad since (minus the minor bumps by the names of Neal and Walsh), she gets it. The feeling of being unwanted and simply just another problem needing fixing is one she’s felt one too many times.

So she takes his hand in hers because Emma Swan has never been good with words, always preferring actions to empty promises. He smiles at her, a proper, soft smile, filled with sincerity and thanks, squeezing her hand in show of accepting her comfort.

She knows nothing about him, but she’s already far more open with him than she is with dozens of her otherfriends ( _acquaintances? She doesn’t quite know how to label that group of people)_.

She wants to say something, give him some verbal conformation that she understands and that he’s not the only one to have felt like this, but just as she’s stuttering to open her mouth, there’s a soft knock on the door she’d come in from no less than 10 minutes ago.

“Miss, visiting hours are over,” the woman dressed in pale green scrubs with her hair pulled back calls, waiting by the entrance with her clipboard in her arm.

She gives her an acknowledging nod and the nurse smiles back before turning to leave. When she looks back at Killian he’s already asleep, eyes shut peacefully with her hand still in hers.

It’s an odd connection she feels towards this man who she’d ran over, as though she knows him and that he knows her. And  _God_ , she’d felt comfortable enough to  _almost_ tell him her life’s story – and that in itself is a feat, considering with most people the thought is so far in the back of her mind that she doesn’t even consider it.

And naturally, with that, a surge of panic arises in her, and as much as she hates herself for it, she lets go and she walks away.

She’d like to think that she did it without hesitation, that it was as easy as it should be given she doesn’t know him and that he’s just a stranger she’d just ran into. She tries telling herself that there isn’t an ounce of regret as she walks away, that she doesn’t feel like she could be missing out on  _something_ here.

But she knows a lie when she sees one.

-/-

She doesn’t think about him for over a month, managing to keep busy with—

Okay,  _that’s a lie_. While she did manage to keep busy (far too busy if you ask her – but  _good news_ : that perp that had gotten away is safely awaiting trial), she couldn’t  _not_ think about him.

But she hasn’t seen him or heard from him for over a month, not that she’d expected to – after all, she didn’t even tell him her name, much less given him her number – so now she’s considering forgetting about him completely.

And even Mary Margaret – the most naïve of people – would be able to see how futile that attempt would be.

So when she’s on her way home from work on a Friday night, she surely doesn’t expect to be called by a nurse of Boston Medical Centre regarding a car crash involving a Mr. Killian Jones, and something about refusal of treatment.

She knows she has no real obligation to actually go (put aside the fact that he’s denying any form of medication until she gets there, or so the nurse says), but she realises if she doesn’t go to see him now, she’d probably never see him ever.

(Even though that  _was_  the plan, when she walked out of his room a month ago)

The detour isn’t too much a hassle, and she arrives in the building no less than fifteen minutes later feeling an odd mixture of nervousness and mild annoyance. (Can you really blame her? She had a whole evening planned with Netflix and a bottle of her specially saved red wine, but when a man gets hit by  _another_ car and only asks for you, plans have to be altered)

When she reaches his room, placed on the same floor as his previous stay, but three doors down and across the hallway, she finds him and the nurse (the very same one that had thrown daggers at Emma from before) in a heated argument on why he  _needs_ the drugs and why he  _doesn’t_.

Then he sees her.

And he fucking  _lights up_.

“Love!” he moves to sit up, but cringes immediately at the pain that blooms at the movement.

Nurse  _Glare-son_ , (whom she’d named rather immaturely), pushes him back into a lying position and he doesn’t bother fighting it. “Great, now that  _she’s_ here, will you take your damn painkillers?” (Emma doesn’t fail to notice the way she grits her teeth at  _‘she’_ , and never has she ever had a stranger hate her with such fiery passion as this nurse shows her)

She doesn’t bother waiting for his answer, thrusting a bottle of what she guesses is Paracetamol (it isn’t her first rodeo involving fractured ribs, mind you) into his hand and lifts the glass of water by the nightstand only to tap it back onto the surface to tell him where it is. She doesn’t waste a breath trying to be polite to either of them, huffing as she walks away and glaring ( _already living up to her name!_ ) at Emma as she passes her.

Emma sighs as she drags herself further into the room, “And  _why_  exactly were you refusing to take the pills?” she deadpans, her voice tired and slightly exasperated.

“Ah, but there is a method to this madness, my dear lass,” he shines her a crooked smile, in the meantime twisting open the cap of the bottle and tapping two pills out into his palm. “I needed to see you again,” he answers simply, a shrug ready to go, but she sees that he pauses at that.

She tries to ignore the small flutters the butterflies she’s only recently been acquainted come with, pretending that the way he says those words don’t affect her at all, refocusing back to her main aim of scolding him for his recklessness. “I don’t quite see how those two things relate.” She crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow hoping to look a little more intimidating (and at the little snicker he lets out, she doesn’t think she’s doing too well in that department.

But soon after, she’s forced to drag a chair closer to him, trying to get comfortable while he tells her this long-winded tale as to why they’re here in the first place.

-/-

It goes like this:

When he wakes up, she’s gone. If not for the lonely balloon (that was probably bought as a last minute thing from the gift shop downstairs) tied to the foot of his bed, he’d be set on the idea that her visit had been all but a hazy dream of his, spurred on by the very helpful painkillers. And even at that, he can’t help but smile at the fact that she’d come back for him.

He’s quite taken with her already, and Killian Jones has never been quite the hopeless romantic, preferring one-night stands or simply nothing at all rather than to have  _feelings_ and  _icky gooey lovey dovey shit_. But when it comes to her, he’s screwed.

And then he remembers that he doesn’t know who she is.

No name to put to the golden blonde and emerald eyes.

For a moment, he idiotically thinks that maybe she’d left her number lying around, or perhaps she’d typed it into his phone while he’d slept. And with a foolish optimism, he looks through over the hundreds of contact names hoping to see an unfamiliar one, three times over.

With a heavy sigh, he contemplates informing his friends of his current state, but feeling like this, he doesn’t quite want Robin and Tink to rush over with the yelling and the  _why didn’t you Goddamn text me_  which would then be followed by their parental-like codling.

And so feeling a surge of disappointment that  _she’s_ lost and never to be found, he shuts his eyes and wills himself back to sleep.

-

He’s let out the very next day, trying his best to hide the limp he’s wearing in hopes that no one would notice nor question him.

And of course that doesn’t go to plan.

Both Will and Robin are at his place (unsurprisingly), Robin’s vein about to burst as he yells at Will for not knowing where Killian was. He can see that he’s about to shout back, probably to say that it isn’t his responsibility to babysit him (which it  _isn’t_ ), but at the sound of the door clicking behind Killian, they both turn, mid-argument and don’t waste a second in lunging at him.

“Where the  _fuck_ have you been?” it’s Will that speaks first, pushing his arm out, ready to smack Killian in his ribs, but ( _thank God_   _for his quick reflexes_ ) he manages to twist in time for Will’s fist to meet his arm instead.

Too slow in coming up with a cover, he hears a thud from the back of his head, Robin’s face furious as he holds up the same hand he’d just hit him with. “Why were you in the bloody hospital?”

He’s taken aback at the question, not quite sure as to how Robin had been able to find out about his stay. “How—“

“You’re holding a plastic bag with  _Boston Medical Centre_ written on it, you prick,” the answer arrives before the question comes and  _oh right_.  _That._

Deciding lying about it would be ineffective and simply stupid considering the evidence is  _right there_ , he tries for a splash of humour mixed with the truth, “What if I told you I got hit by a car and broke a rib or two?”

Bracing himself for the backlash he’s sure to get, he’s unsurprised at the response he gets from his answer – a couple of dodged hits here and a couple of successful punches there, mixed in with yells that could surely wake poor Granny Lucas from downstairs.

He’ll never quite admit it, but a part of him smiles at the fact that his friends genuinely care.

It’s been awhile.

Well, awhile if not counting her mystery woman.

-

(He might have been hallucinating, but it was  _there_.

He felt it strong and surging in the warmth of her hand in his and the smile she’d lent him.

He’s probably mad, but he can swear on it – connection’s there, and he’d be damned if he’s letting an opportunity like this slip away)

-

He’s quarantined for a week under Tink’s strict reign. She’d taken to sleeping over making sure he didn’t “sneak off on a chase of the woman who’d put him here in the first place” (she  _always_ says, with far too many dashes of bitterness, and he’s always loved Tink for how protective she is about the people she loves, and he’s a lucky bastard to fall under one of those people).

But she’s probably right, had she not slept next to him for the week (they’ve been friends for awhile, don’t get your knickers in a twist), the probability of him getting hit by another car while searching the city for blonde and beautiful (he really wishes he could come up with a better name) would go off the charts.

After seven tortuous days and she’d finally let him out, with his brilliant idea stored in mind, he’s at the hospital, chatting up Brittany who’d been so very helpful during his stay in hopes that she’d pull a few strings and help find her.

Turns out, women don’t quite like you anymore when you ask them for help to track down another woman.

So with this dead end, he retreats home, formulating a plan into finding her.

-

He wants to say  _thank you_ , say  _something_. See her again without the bursting pain of broken ribs or drugged up thoughts. Killian Jones has never been one to back out a fight and he doesn’t quite intend on doing it now.

So after a night of heavy drinking with the only one that is actually remotely competition, Will and him come up with the ( ~~idiotic~~ _brilliant_ ) idea to find a way to get himself admitted  _back_  in the hopes that  _that_ would spur something on.

(He’s not quite sure what he expects to be spurred by this, but he’s always been an optimist)

But apparently, to be admitted into a hospital, something has to be wrong with you, and simply being pissed drunk does  _not_ cut it.

-

 _But then it hits him_  –  _oh wait_ , we’re not there yet.

Just as he’s about to give up, after over a month of searching for her, he  _sees_ her.

He spots the golden hair from across the street, barely thinking before he dashes across the street, his voice echoing as he yells out  _lass! lass!_  and just as he’s reaching her side of the pavement, she turns, and—

It’s not her.

Her face not the right shape, and her eyes not green, the curious yet mildly annoyed look he’d already imagined he’d see not there either.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

And so, with yet another battle lost, he draws back  _and then_ it hits him.

His body hits the ground, a painful yet satisfyingly familiar feeling rushes through him, and he’s oddly happy at the fact that he’d just been hit by a car ( _again_ ).

The man that had hit him is understandably confused at the large smile he wears on his face, nevertheless rushing him to the hospital – yes _, the very same one_  – multiple apologies falling out from his mouth but honestly all Killian can think about is that if this doesn’t work, nothing will.

And this time, when they’d asked him who his emergency contact was, he’d begged them to check the damn visitor’s log from the last time he was here or  _something_ to just see her.

(Now that he sees it, he  _does_  sound pretty insane teetering the edge between determined and creepy)

But when they’d said they couldn’t do that, he’d come up with yet another brilliant idea to refuse treatment until they called her up.

After a good half hour of arguing with the nurse, Brittany had finally given in and called one Emma Swan regarding Mr. Killian Jones who’s been refusing medication.

-

And now, we’re here.

-/-

“You’re fucking crazy, you know,” it’s all Emma has to offer after that rollercoaster of a ride he’s taken her on, sitting up and pushing herself to her feet, pacing around him to help her digest the story he’d just enlightened her on. “ _Insane.”_

“I prefer committed.”

She stares back at him with an incredulous look, mouth hanging open and eyes blown wide. “Do you not hear yourself? You got hit  _by a car_  –  _again_ –  _breaking_  your ribs –  _again_ – on the off chance that you’ll see me?”

“Sounds about right.”

“You do realise that I could have  _not_ come down, and you’d just be without medication, right?”

“Mhm.”

“And you were willing to take that risk?”

He shrugs, “Why not?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy doesn’t do it for you, then?” he smirks, bravado back in full swing as he stares at her expectantly, waiting for her to comeback from his quip.

But after that story of his, she doesn’t think she has the energy.

So instead, “Actually, it does.”

Leaning down, she only has a second to soak in the utter shock apparent in his face before her lips meet his. They’re soft and warm, and apparently still as surprised as the person they belong to.  _Well_ , for about a millisecond – then he’s kissing her back, moving them against her own, and between the soft hairs that run between her fingers that have settled at the nape of his neck, that tongue of his that’s been dying to peek out, and the rough stubble that contrasts against the smooth of her cheek, she’s pretty much high on Killian Jones.

So high that when her other hand travels down his chest, she completely forgets that he is in fact injured.

But he doesn’t quite forget.

“Bloody fuck,” his voice jumps three octaves higher. The hand that had previously been cradling her face now reaches for the one she still doesn’t quite realise is causing him discomfort and drags it away.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry—“

“Apparently the drugs haven’t quite taken effect,” he smiles it off, his eyes shining along with the flash of teeth, and then he’s pulling her back down (being sure her hand is nowhere near his broken bones), her lips back on his and her smile permanently in place.

She’s still pretty sure that he’s crazy or something. But with the way he kisses her right then, she doesn’t find that she cares.

-/-

When visiting hours are long over and the nurse makes her fourth trip to remind her that she has to leave, Emma’s sure to leave him her number, not quite willing to risk him breaking anything else trying to get a hold of her.


End file.
